


Take The World

by youaresunlight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Destiel In Paris, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 14:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaresunlight/pseuds/youaresunlight
Summary: As is tradition, Prince Dean Winchester must choose his fiancé at the celebration of his twenty-fifth birthday. And with just one month left until the event, he is granted two weeks for a solo vacation. It’s his last chance at solitude and anonymity before fully committing to his official duties, so, of course, it’s on this trip that he meets the love of his life.





	Take The World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deliciousirony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony/gifts).



> Modern Royalty AU has been on my to-write list for a while, so when I saw it in my recipient's request, I couldn't resist! This was definitely a fun piece to write. I hope you enjoy, deliciousirony! Title and quote below are from the song "Take The World" by Johnnyswim.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** It goes without saying that certain nations that aren't monarchies in the real world (e.g. the United States) are monarchies in this fic for the sake of the story. :)

> _'Cause they can write stories_  
>  _They can sing songs_  
>  _But they don't make fairy tales_  
>  _Sweeter than ours_

 

One month shy of his twenty-fifth birthday, Dean convinces his parents – with some degree of persuasion – to let him travel overseas on his own. Well, perhaps, not entirely on his own, since his security detail is non-negotiable, but alone enough that the trip won’t be something official, announced by the palace, or mentioned in the news. 

He knows that by midnight of his upcoming birthday, he will have chosen his fiancé, that every eligible man with a suitable title will attend the celebration to catch his eye. He’s accepted, is at peace with the fact, that the rest of his life will be devoted to his country. And he’ll be ready come his birthday, it’s just- He can’t help but yearn for some semblance of freedom before then. 

His mother’s eyes seem to soften first, followed by his father’s, at his longing expression. They then glance at each other, a silent exchange, after which his mother asks, “Where did you have in mind?” 

When he tells them, they don’t look surprised, and his heart beats faster, a little like flying.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

“Paris, huh?” Sam says through the screen. “You did always say you wanted to go.” He pulls on a sweatshirt and it musses up his hair, bangs nearly in his eyes. God, the kid needs a haircut. 

“Yeah,” Dean reaches for his coffee while Sam does the same with his mug of tea. It’s been their weekly tradition since Sam went to college: an early morning Skype call with requisite caffeine. Of course, Palo Alto is three hours behind, which means Dean’s always the one who’s more put together. Today, there’s a sharp pillow crease on Sam’s left cheek that he’s already laughed at and teased him for. 

“Benny going with you?” Sam asks through a yawn, one he has the grace to cover with his hand. He sat through the same etiquette lessons that Dean had, and even three years of college won’t beat them out of him. 

“Benny and Victor,” Dean confirms, then falters a bit. “You think it’s crazy?” 

He must sound pretty vulnerable, because Sam begins to frown, eyes big and worried. “No. You deserve this, Dean, doing something for yourself,” he says resolutely. “Look, I know you didn’t- If it weren’t for me-” 

“Sammy, don’t.” 

But Sam barrels on, undeterred. “You could’ve abdicated, Dean,” he says. “You could’ve let the title fall to me, but you didn’t. So, Dad would be happy. So, I could live my life.” 

Dean’s never been that great at taking credit, but he knows it’s true, what his brother is saying. He could’ve given up the crown and left that world behind, maybe moved somewhere warmer, gone to graduate school. A spare existed for that exact reason, to be groomed and educated to take Dean’s place, and in a different lifetime, Dean may have done it: abandoned his duties for Sam to take on. Except, he knew Sam – and, more importantly, loved him – and the last thing Sam wanted was a life on the throne. Dean also knew their father would be devastated to have neither son succeed him, which then pretty much settled the choice for him.

Dean doesn’t regret his decision at all, seeing Sam now, thriving in school. He’s pre-law, which is exactly what he wants, and lives off-campus with three of his friends. He runs track and joined Club Swimming and is considering a minor in art history. He’s been dating someone, a pre-med from Oregon. Looks starry-eyed and love-struck talking about her. 

Sam could marry her if he wanted, Dean thinks, another reason why he made the choice he did. If only one of them can marry freely, then it should be Sam. There’s no question in Dean’s mind. 

“Just have a good time, alright?” Sam smiles at him, dimples and all. “And bring me macarons from Ladurée.” 

Dean huffs out a laugh. “In your dreams,” he grins.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Dean has to concede on several points when it comes to his travel and lodging arrangements, such as no flying on commercial flights, and staying in a suite to accommodate his team. There are other rules too, like no public transportation and the usual rule of not going out alone. Since the scare they had when he was fourteen, there hasn’t been any wiggle room whatsoever. 

They’re reasonable enough that he doesn’t mind; he’s used to it, anyhow, after all these years. Plus, the prospect of the trip alone is enough to distract him from everything else. He’s been to Paris before, of course, as well as Nice and Lyon with his parents and Sam. But they were official trips with formidable agendas and he never had the chance to just be a tourist.

“I hope they’re not on strike,” he says on the plane. “At least, I didn’t see anything in the news.” 

“They’re _always_ on strike,” Benny snorts in reply, but his smile is fond. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.” He then turns in his seat to open his briefcase, fishing inside till he finds a book. Dean assumes that it’s his to read on the flight, but Benny slides it across the table pulled out between them. “Victor and I got this for you.” 

Dean picks it up and peers at the cover. “A guidebook?” he thumbs through the pages. 

“Uh, yeah,” Benny clears his throat. “Supposed to be good. It came recommended.” 

It certainly seems very detailed. Dean’s chest feels warm. “Thanks, guys,” he says. He looks up to find both of them smiling, and Victor nods, “You’re welcome, Your Highness.” 

The book is divided into chapters by arrondissement, filled with glossy photos and suggestions and tips. Dean uses a pen to mark what stands out and spends most of the flight on his itinerary.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Objectively speaking, January is a terrible time to visit Paris. Well, it’s not a great time to travel anywhere, really, except below the equator – Antarctica aside. 

It’s still Paris, though, so it’s lively and crowded, people bundled up in black and grey. The skies are clouded over and the chill in the air turns his breath wispy white.

Dean’s a little in love. 

He spends the first few days in tourist heaven, from the d’Orsay to the Arc de Triomphe, where he climbs all two hundred and eighty-four steps. The Louvre has more cause for wariness, with its unparalleled crowds on any given day, but Dean is more interested in the sculptures anyway, which tends to draw a smaller audience than “The Mona Lisa” does. 

He also goes a little shutter crazy, as one does in a city like Paris. He texts most of them to Sam throughout the day, especially ones of Victor looking grumpy in cramped cafés and Benny with puppy ears, courtesy of Snapchat. ‘He’s so mad,’ he captions one photo of Victor squished into a restaurant booth. “You ought to lose a few pounds there, huh, Victor?” 

Victor looks pained. “Very funny, Your Highness.” 

They’ve been joining Dean for all his meals, as there’s no real sense in them sitting apart when Dean is on his own for every excursion. There are curious glances but nothing more, like people wonder but dissuade themselves. A waiter asks for his number, completely unaware, and Dean gently turns him down in his broken French. “Je suis désolé, um…” he glances at the guys, both of whom have put their forks down and look unimpressed. The waiter follows Dean’s gaze and whatever he deduces makes him stammer an apology and flee from the table. 

“That’s what I thought,” Benny takes his fork and pointedly stabs his sole meunière. 

Dean rolls his eyes as he sips his water. “He probably thought you two were my dads.” 

Benny chokes on his bite of fish while Victor shrugs, “I could do better.” 

Dean grins and thumps Benny on the back. “Aw, don’t be mean,” he says through a laugh.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Once he begins to make a dent in his must-see list, Dean tries seeking out a few local haunts – quaint cafés and brasseries tucked away on streets without souvenir vendors or postcard racks. The first time he ventures to such a neighborhood, Benny and Victor trail farther behind. Close enough to keep an eye on him as they’re trained to, but giving him more space than they have so far. Dean thinks he wouldn’t have minded either way, though it’s nice to duck into bakeries and shops and bookstores and relish the illusion of solitude. He finds a scarf for his mom that he thinks she’ll like and gloves for his dad in a nice onyx black.

He returns to the hotel close to dinnertime, feet tired from wandering on cobblestone and more inclined to dine amidst some calm and quiet. He puts on a fresh shirt and neatly pressed slacks before stepping into the restaurant on the first floor. 

The interior is lavish, not unlike the halls and ballrooms at the palace, with a grand piano near one of the windows, sleek and gleaming beneath the chandeliers. Dean’s table is close and he’s glad for it; he’s heard that the music is excellent. 

He sees Benny and Victor in his periphery taking their place a few tables away, while his server explains, in impeccable English, the ins and outs of the tasting menu. It’s one hell of a mouthful down to the dessert, but Dean orders it anyway, plus a glass of wine. “Will someone be playing?” Dean gestures to the side, tilting his head toward the unoccupied piano. 

“Yes, at seven,” his server smiles. Dean peeks at his watch. It’s ten minutes till. 

It’s admittedly strange to sit by himself. He’s so rarely alone for any part of his day. But it occurs to Dean, as the minutes tick by, that there’s a certain beauty to this kind of peace that he’s not ever known yet craved all the same. 

He’s interrupted once when his drink is brought out, and then again a few minutes later. Some movement by the piano catches his eye and then he finds himself staring, and staring. 

Completely unable to look away. 

The guy is young, maybe around Dean’s age, wearing a crisp white shirt and classic black pants, both a visible contrast to his dark, tousled hair. He touches the piano with obvious care, pulling out the bench and adjusting its height. When he opens the lid to reveal the keys, his fingers are long and elegant against the black and white. 

He doesn’t have any music, Dean realizes, but when he starts to play – Debussy, Dean thinks – it’s with such ease and effortlessness that it takes his breath away. He expected the skill, given the setting, but it captivates him nonetheless, as does the smile on the pianist’s lips, subtle and relaxed. Confident. 

One piece flows into the other, without enough pause for praise or applause, though if previous experience is anything to go by, he shouldn’t react till the end anyhow. His food starts to arrive, tiny and embellished, but he’s too mesmerized to pay much attention. It’s probably incredible, painstakingly prepared, yet all the effort is wasted on Dean.  

His server flits up to check on him and Dean hears himself say, “Could I ask his name?” Perhaps it’s rude, definitely forward, though the reply is a smile like it’s a common question.

“Of course. He is Castiel. He’s been performing here for six months now.” 

“He’s very talented,” Dean says quietly, then promptly blushes. This is pretty embarrassing. 

The smiles he receives is somewhat knowing. “You are welcome to tell him. Many patrons do.” 

“Oh,” Dean lowers his eyes to the napkin in his lap. “I don’t know.” 

“Just a suggestion,” his server says. “I will be back with your entrecôte.” 

With the music, it’s easy to lose track of time, and the next time he checks it’s been over an hour and there’s finally some hint of imminent dessert. It’s a relief, if Dean’s being honest, especially when he’s growing increasingly restless. 

Applause breaks out when Castiel is done, and that’s a relief too, to have everyone clapping. It means that Dean doesn’t have to hold back, though his applause might be louder than most.

What his server said earlier plays in his mind, and he’s never shy about approaching people but something about Castiel gives him pause. It’s not till an elderly couple beats him to it that Dean decides he’s being ridiculous. There’s no harm in a compliment, he reminds himself as he rises from his chair. He’s met world-famous artists of every medium. There’s no reason for him to be nervous. 

He walks up as the couple is leaving, heading back to their table arm in arm. The wife gives one last compliment over her shoulder and Castiel thanks them. God, he’s… 

“Bonsoir.” 

Dean blinks, heat rising in his cheeks, realizing suddenly that a moment has passed and Castiel is facing him, smiling softly. “Um, bonsoir,” he rubs the back of his neck. “Votre… performance est… était géniale.” 

He knows that his French is the bare minimum, just enough to politely greet foreign dignitaries and make a small effort to welcome them. According to his tutor, if his accent were better, he’d be able to get away with much less, but he’s scraping the bottom of the barrel as it is, and hopes that he can manage this conversation. 

Castiel’s smile widens a bit, and it reaches his deep, incredibly blue eyes. After years of learning to differentiate pretense, Dean finds it refreshing to see something genuine. “Merci, c’est très apprécié.” Castiel extends a hand. “Je m’appelle Castiel.” 

“Oh, um, Dean,” he shakes the offered hand. It envelops his. 

He flushes even harder. 

“Dean. Enchanté,” Castiel smiles. “Welcome to Paris.”

They haven’t let go but Dean startles slightly. He didn’t catch an accent. “I’m sorry, I assumed-” 

Castiel waves it off, with the hand not holding Dean’s, and neither of them moves to pull away from each other. “Of course, don’t worry,” he says easily. “Where are you visiting from?” 

Dean doesn’t consider himself a celebrity; it’s not the image he’s meant, or want, to convey. The spotlight will shift to him once he ascends the throne, but until then he’s content being out of the media and the palace facilitating that as much as possible. So, although he knows that his face is out there for curious eyes to find if they try, he isn’t surprised when he goes unrecognized, especially now that he’s overseas. 

“The States,” he says, though that’s probably obvious. “And you- Are you an ex-pat?” 

“Ah, no,” Castiel huffs a laugh, and they’ve finally let go. Dean misses the touch. “I moved here for school. Well, here and London. I came back after graduation but wasn’t ready to leave once summer was over.” 

Dean’s only been in Paris a few days now, but he thinks he gets it, and nods his understanding. “Were you in school for music?” he goes on to ask. Castiel certainly seems like a serious pianist. 

But Castiel shakes his head again. “No, piano is just… an outlet for me. I studied international economic policy. At the, ah, LSE and Sciences-Po.” 

“Oh,” Dean widens his eyes, because that’s impressive and he tells him as much. 

Castiel replies with a shrug that’s modest. Endearing. “I’m still trying to figure what I’ll do with it. I want to do good but there are so many areas. So many issues that need attention.” His next smile is more vulnerable. “It’s pathetic, I know, and indecisive.” 

“It isn’t,” Dean is quick to assure him, not only because he’s never had the chance for indecision – not with most details in his life decided for him – but also because it’s rare to meet someone who’s biggest concern is how they can help. 

It’s the kind of quality he’d want in a husband, though he doesn’t allow himself to indulge the thought. 

“Thanks,” Castiel says, color in his cheeks as he clears his throat. “So, how long are you staying in Paris?” 

“Two weeks,” Dean replies with a smile. “I’ve already been here a few days though.”

“And it’s treating you okay?” Castiel asks, low and warm. Dean’s heart flutters. 

“Yeah, it’s been… It’s been really great.” Then in a flash of bravery, “Better now.”

Castiel looks pleased. “Yeah?” he says. “What are your plans for the rest of the week?” 

“Um, it’s super touristy,” Dean laughs, abashed. “I was thinking of… Montmartre? Tomorrow?” Oh, geez. 

“The Sacré-Cœur is a must,” Castiel agrees, then looks a little bit shier, hesitant. “I’m not sure if you’d like company, but I’ve been a couple times. I could show you around.” 

Dean can’t recall the last time someone wanted to spend time with him without knowing who he is. His classmates in college were aware of his title, and so is everyone he meets at various functions. Castiel doesn’t know who Dean really is, and he’s smart and _handsome_ and offering- 

“I’d love that,” Dean says happily. 

Castiel is beaming too when they exchange their numbers.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Benny and Victor take a little convincing, but agree to a compromise that they’ll stay close by. They were in the restaurant when Dean met Cas – it’s ‘Cas’ now, as of a few texts ago – and even though they’re wary of Cas’ “intentions” – they’re words, not Dean’s – they try to be supportive.

“That’s not a date coat,” Victor accuses from the couch, as soon as Dean emerges wearing it. Dean clutches his down coat protectively. “It’s not a date,” he tries to protest. 

Benny just scoffs and leaves the room and- That’s _treason_ , right? It has to be. Dean peeks down at his coat, bright blue and puffy, and sighs dejectedly. “What’s wrong with this one?”

He isn’t exactly sure where Benny’s gone until he returns with a garment bag. He unzips it with his usual nonchalance and pulls out a pea coat, freshly laundered. 

Victor gets up on his feet and nods his approval. “ _That_ , right there, is a date coat,” he says. “Change, Your Highness. You’re gonna be late.” 

Sometimes, Dean’s not sure which of them works for whom.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

They agreed to meet at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the basilica at eleven o’clock. Cas is already waiting when Dean arrives, breaking into a smile at the sight of him. “Hey,” he sounds so _happy_ , maybe breathless from the cold, maybe something else too. He’s dressed very nicely, with a great wool coat, and Dean makes a mental note to thank the guys later. 

“Hi,” he says, and he’s definitely flustered, but it’s a pleasant, floaty feeling that makes his heart swell a bit helplessly. “Did you wait long?” he’s sure to ask, because it’s cold despite all of their layers.

“Just a few minutes,” Cas takes his hand and starts up the steps. “Plus, I’m used to it.”

They talk the whole time and it’s just… It’s easy. Cas is a good listener but he’s interesting too, and he knows how to carry a conversation. Dean is used to small talk, working at it, and clicking so well like this with someone is new. Perhaps it’s more than just the attraction, though there’s undoubtedly a spark. Dean can practically feel it. 

Their conversation comes to a pause when they enter the basilica, and Cas moves away to give Dean space, as well as time, to take it all in. There’s an immediate shift in the air around them, a hallowed silence, thick and humbling. Dean feels it clench at his heart a little and he doesn’t know why. It may be the beauty.

Cas is gazing up at the apse when Dean finds him again, the morning light streaming in through the windows playing off the sharp angles of his nose and cheeks. He smiles at Dean and waits for him to speak, and Dean reaches for his hand. “It’s amazing,” he says. 

Cas’ eyes crinkle and he looks so fond. “We can stay longer. Whatever you want.” 

Dean nods, and Cas lets him go, and he walks around a second time while Castiel waits. 

They don’t take any photos until they’re outside, and they ask a couple, who’s there with their baby, to snap a few with the basilica looming behind them. Afterward, she instructs, from what Dean can catch, for them to turn around for the other iconic backdrop. She tells them they can’t miss this view of the city, and her husband concurs from his place by the stroller. 

Dean lets Castiel choose where they go for lunch, and it’s a small café near the carousel serving deliciously simple sandwiches on fresh baguettes. He catches sight of Benny outside the main door, talking on his work cell, the encrypted one. He does come in eventually with Victor in tow and they sit out of earshot on the other side.

He and Cas talk a bit more about the basilica, then about what else Dean wants to see in Paris. They jump from topic to topic, flowing so well, and at one point he’s asked, “Are you a student back home?” 

“I… No,” Dean puts down his sandwich, reaching for his Perrier to buy some time. “I’m actually planning to take over the family business.” Which isn’t accurate but not inaccurate either. 

“Oh yeah?” Cas cocks his head, and Dean prays that he won’t ask which industry. The question that follows, though, catches him off guard. “And is that what you want to do?” 

“Well,” Dean drops his eyes, chewing his lip as he forms his response. It’s a nervous tic, one he’s working to fix. He can’t be biting his lip at cabinet meetings. “The thing is, my dad… He’s always, um, wanted to leave the business to me or my brother. But he never wanted it, my brother, and I… It’s my duty, you know? It’s what I’m meant to do.” 

Cas looks at him for a long, thoughtful moment, not with any judgment, only genuine concern. “Do you think it’ll make you happy?” he asks at last, his voice so soft, quiet and composed. 

“I mean, sure,” Dean avoids his eyes. “I’ll be happy if my family’s happy.” 

“That’s a lot you’re putting on your shoulders.” 

Dean almost laughs because, understatement. “Yeah, maybe,” he sighs and looks up, braving a smile. “But it’s my choice.” 

Cas’ hand is a warm, steady weight over his, and it makes Dean ache for what he can’t have.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Dean meets with Cas the day after that, and the day after that, and they keep making plans. He has no idea where they’re going with this, especially with the end of his trip inching closer and closer.

The logical part of his mind, which is increasingly downsizing the more he sees Cas, knows that whatever it is they have will be left behind the minute he departs. It’s not because he wants to – god, he _doesn’t_ want to – but he and Cas… It just isn’t possible. He’ll be back in States with a week to spare, then that will be it. He’ll be engaged. 

He tries to tell himself it will be okay, that this is just his last hurrah before settling down. It isn’t unheard of for young royalty to let loose in anonymity while they still can. Dean’s not tied down, not yet anyway, and he’s in a foreign country where people don’t know him. He can be anyone, be _with_ anyone.

He can be with Cas. 

He wants to be with Cas. 

So, maybe it doesn’t go well, this plan to fool himself, and when Cas walks him back after their third date, Dean tugs him in to press his lips against Cas’. It’s selfish, probably, even though Cas knows that he’ll be leaving. What he doesn’t know, because Dean never said, is that they won’t even be able to stay in touch. 

And it’s confirmed that Dean’s a terrible person because, right then, with Cas kissing him back, it’s all Dean can do to keep holding on. To press their bodies closer and clutch Cas’ coat, moan against his lips when Cas cards his fingers through Dean’s hair. 

When they pull apart, they’re equally flushed, equally breathless, and Dean’s heart breaks. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks despite it, and Castiel smiles. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Another week flies by, far too quickly, and then suddenly it’s the day before Dean has to leave. He has a text from his mother letting him know how excited they’ll be to have him back. 

The reality of it settles heavily on Dean, and though he tries his best not to let it show, it puts a damper on his last date with Cas. Cas is actually the one who keeps it together, pulling Dean in as soon as he sees him to kiss his lips, his forehead, his cheek. He feels so secure, so lovely and perfect, and Dean’s throat goes tight with a sharp pang of grief.

“I want to take you somewhere,” Cas murmurs to him, as though that hasn’t been the case the past ten-odd days. “It’s in Montmartre,” he adds with a smile, and Dean can’t believe their first date was just last week. 

Cas already feels so good and familiar, the way his hand finds Dean’s as they walk along a street, down the aisle of a bookstore, through an art exhibit. When they kiss, it feels as if they’ve been doing it forever, just fitting together. The way Cas touches him makes his heart beat wildly, but it also grounds him. It’s the only thing that does. 

“I’m going to miss you,” Dean says, too early, at the entrance of the garden Cas brings them to. “The last thing I expected was to meet someone, but then I met _you_ and…” He has to trail off. 

Cas gazes back with so much emotion, too many for Dean to decipher each one. When he tears his eyes away, it’s to look at their hands, joined and clasped like they’re defying the world. “I’m- I didn’t know either,” his voice is rough yet so, so gentle. “I keep telling myself that I must have gone crazy. There’s no other way to explain how I… fell this hard.” He takes a long, shuddering breath, mouth curved in a smile but his eyes a little wet. He untangles their fingers and removes his gloves, shoves them in a pocket while Dean watches. Then, with his bare hands, he cradles Dean’s face and kisses him right there, deep and bittersweet. 

It’s the kind of kiss Dean has only heard about, one that makes him lose track of everything else. His eyes flutter closed and his lashes feel wet, and he wishes… he _wishes_ … 

It doesn’t matter. 

“Come on,” Cas leads him by the hand once they break apart and catch their breath. The mood lightens slightly when Dean fusses about his gloves, but he’s at a loss again when they come to a stop and he finally sees where Cas has brought him. “Cas,” he gasps. “Is this…?” 

Cas squeezes his hand. “Le mur des je t’aime.” 

“The I Love You Wall,” Dean says in awe. He’s read about this piece before. A wall that reads ‘I love you’ in hundreds of languages, hundreds of times. A declaration. 

“I’m going to miss you too, Dean,” Cas says to him, soft and sincere, heart on his sleeve. A heart that Dean wants, wants to keep so badly, but has to let go for Cas’ sake. “Maybe we can…” Cas doesn’t finish, though the hope on his face is raw and earnest. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, and means it so much. “I wish we could.” He means that too. 

They don’t stay in the garden for that much longer, especially with a tour group that arrives on their heels. They walk back toward the exit down a snow-dusted path, and when Cas makes it a point to hold onto his hand, Dean quells his racing heart and lets him have it.

They decide to stay in and cook that evening, nestled together in the warmth of Cas’ apartment. It’s nothing fancy, just pasta and chicken, but each time they pass each other in the kitchen it’s a lingering touch or a kiss on the shoulder. 

“What time is your flight tomorrow?” Cas asks him later when they’re sitting on the couch. He’s got his hand running through Dean’s hair and it makes Dean sigh into Cas’ shirt. 

“Pretty early in the morning. Ten, I think?” he traces patterns on Cas’ thigh. They’re lazy figure eights and loopy hearts. “I should probably head back soon.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Cas offers softly, and Dean should, but doesn’t want to, protest.

“Okay,” he murmurs back, though neither makes an effort to move just yet.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Cas drops him off in the hotel lobby with the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth. He touches Dean’s cheek with a wistful smile, full of things unsaid. “Be happy, Dean.”

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Benny and Victor give him plenty of space the entire flight and car ride home. Aside from a few sympathetic looks, they let him be, for which Dean is grateful. 

He’s swept up in a million tasks as soon as he’s back, meetings and fittings and luncheons and press, dividing his attention in too many ways. It’s an intense relief when Sam flies in the night before his birthday celebration. Dean briefly debates telling him about Cas, though he wonders then if there’s any point when he’ll be engaged in less than thirty hours. He and Cas- They went on dates. Didn’t even _hook up_. What’s there to tell? 

So, when Sam asks if anything happened around a mouthful of macaron, Dean shakes his head and nudges his shoulder. “Tell me about school,” and sits to listen.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

His birthday is a whirlwind to say the least, flowing with drinks and smothered with politics and suitors paraded in front of him. They try to be tasteful with the introductions but there just are so many throughout the evening. It feels alarmingly like watching a conveyor belt and people around him saying, ‘Go on. Pick one.’ 

The conversations, however, are pleasant enough. One prince he meets competes in triathlons, another likes old movies, another charts stars. There’s one who seems to light up about classic cars that Dean mentions to his brother afterward, but Sam just looks upset, all wide-eyed and guilty, so Dean looks away and returns to the party.

He really does try, for everyone’s sake, because the fact of the matter is that he needs to choose. An entire year of work went into tonight and he can’t blow it off. It isn’t an option. 

But as the night wears on, he starts to lose hope, because he can’t help but look for dark, messy hair and intense blue eyes that soften for him. Lips that are chapped from a Parisian winter yet magically warm where they touch Dean’s skin. Beautiful hands and small, fond smiles. All the details that Dean can’t forget. 

It’s like his heart is forcing his mind to remember them, so clear that he could picture all of Cas, right now. Which is why when Dean _sees_ him, among the guests, he’s instantly convinced it’s his imagination. 

Because it couldn’t be. Couldn’t be him. 

“Ah, Your Highness.” 

Impossible. 

“Please allow me to introduce Prince Castiel.” 

Cas, for his part, looks equally shocked, and the court liaison glances between them, his smile growing nervous in the ensuing silence. Dean manages to find his bearings first, extending his hand as he clears his throat. “I… It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, then to the liaison, “Could we have a moment?” 

If the man is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He bows slightly instead. “Of course, Your Highness.” 

Dean waits for him to take his leave before turning to Cas with a baffled expression. “You’re…” he feels a bit breathless. “You’re a prince,” he says stupidly. 

“Yes,” Cas nods very slowly, like this is news to him as well. “You too, it seems.” 

“You didn’t say you were coming to the States.” Dean drops his eyes. “When I left, that is.”

“I didn’t know,” Cas takes a step closer. “I was told to attend two days ago.”

Dean’s been missing Cas fiercely since returning from Paris, yet now that he’s here, Dean can’t look at him. “Did you want to?” he bites his lip. Terrible habit. “Did you want to come?”

“Honestly?” Cas tells him softly. “I was too hung up on somebody else.”

“Oh,” Dean can hear his pulse, ringing in his ears. “Me too,” he admits. He hedges a glance then, back up at Cas, who’s smiling at him with so much tenderness, just like he had when they were in Paris.

“You know, it was meant to be my brother, here tonight,” Cas explains with a little laugh. “Then, out of the blue, he calls me and says he’s met someone. He wants to make it work.” His mouth tugs upward into a smile and it’s brighter than anything else in the ballroom. “Our parents were in an uproar to get me here. I mean, they had to send _some_ body.”

Dean is startled into a laugh, because what are the _chances_. “They made a good choice.”

“Yeah?” Cas smiles widely. “I’ll be sure to tell them. They’ll be thrilled.”

They’re standing close now, in their own private bubble, and Cas reaches his hand, sweetly familiar. “Dean, I know I’m probably not… what you were looking for, before or now. But if you wanted- If you were to ask…” He locks their eyes. “I’d be your prince.”

Dean’s heart is pounding. “Cas… Are you sure? You’d have to… God, you’d be giving up…”

“I’d be with you,” Cas says matter-of-factly, like that’s what settles it, what matters most.

And the thing is, if the tables were turned, Dean would be the one saying this to Cas. Because it may have been a short time they spent together, but he’s never felt this way about anyone else.

“I want to be with you too,” he smiles shyly. “I want to go on more dates. Hold your hand a lot.”

Castiel laughs and pulls him close. They smile as they kiss. “We can do that.”

“Oh, and just so you know,” Dean is sure to add, touching his hand to Cas’ cheek, because for the first time, he feels free and fearless. “You’re exactly the one I was looking for.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Just in case it wasn't obvious, Benny and Victor definitely shed a tear or two at the royal wedding. Also, it's not specified in the fic, but Cas is a Canadian prince, and together he and Dean become a power couple who do good in the world and adopt cute babies.)
> 
> [Rebloggable link here](http://puppycastiel.tumblr.com/post/170359664095/take-the-world-fic-by-youaresunlight) (please share if you enjoyed the fic!)
> 
> As always, do leave me kudos, comments, and love! :)


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